


Nightmare

by Lovely_Mints



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Maybe fluff? I'm sorry I'm bad at this, Nightmare, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-07 02:55:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18864295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lovely_Mints/pseuds/Lovely_Mints
Summary: One shot. Stanford wakes up from a nightmare and Mabel's there to cheer him up. NOT INCEST. I'm not about that life.Written for a prompt on tumblr. Thanks anon!





	Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Hey everyone! I think last week or so I sent out a post for some writing prompts. So here it is. Thanks Anon for the prompt and sorry it took me so long! This is my first Gravity Falls Fic so Mabel and Stanford were a little tricky for me to write. I hope I did them justice and didn’t stray too far from their traits. Any who…
> 
> ANON prompted: “Ford waking up from a nightmare and Mabel coming thru to comfort him would be cute”
> 
> Word Count: 1,076
> 
> Genre: Angst/Comfort. SFW. Also, this is NOT an incest fic.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

* * *

 

     Stanford wakes with a strangled gasp. He flounders for a moment, gripping and clawing at his shirt, then his cheeks and forehead as the dream clings to him. It takes a vague shape; black and ugly and laughing.

     The weight of the ocean presses against his chest. He pushes at it, desperate for relief as his lungs ache for breath he cannot find. When pushing fails he rakes a hand down the void. Finger nails scrape across something warm and goopy as he sinks ever deeper. The shadows twist and squirm in response until in a final jerk of laughter it presses outwards to reveal a single eye.

 His mind races. _This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. This is—this isn’t!_

     The laughter returns, vile than ever and oh so familiar. The pressure against his chest doubles down and it’s punishing. He can’t breathe. _Oh God he was drowning, he was drowning, he--!_

     He wakes for the second time, choking and gasping for air. Light from an open window chases away the worst of the darkness and the tide relents, pulling away with his next inhale. Dull smells of wooden floor-boards and pine fill his nose and lungs, overwhelming but familiar. A room fills his vision and though it’s messy and littered with papers, it’s very much his own.

Summer eases into the space on a slant of fading light and a breeze which rustles the papers strewn across the floor. The warmth it brings doesn’t do much against the chill he feels but it’s welcomed nonetheless.

     Stanford exhales and digs the heels of his palms in his eyes. There is no darkness. There is no Bill. Everything is in the past.

     “As it should be.” He manages through gritted teeth.

     A moment passes before he’s straining to hear the usual sounds of the house; laughter and the perpetual hum of voices from the television. Heavy silence is his answer. He’s alone. _Always alone_ , a voice coos from the dark.

     “Grunkle Ford?”

     Stanford bolts upwards like a coiled spring.

     In the light of his door frame Mabel stands wide eyed. “Is everything ok?”

     “It’s…” He clears some of the hesitation from his throat. “Everything’s fine.”

     The thirteen year old doesn’t look convinced and Stanford doesn’t blame her. Lying was more of Stanley’s forte than his. It always has been. All he can do at that point is offer a smile. It feels strange in the aftermath of the dream— _nightmare’s a better word for it_ —he firmly corrects as he gathers himself. He almost misses the half-smile she gives in return.

     “Would you like some Mabel Juice? I’ve been experimenting with the recipe so it should taste extra great this time.” She steps inside to offer him a glass of something which is a concerning bright red. Plastic dinosaur heads breach the surface alongside ice-cubes of mismatched sizes.

     Stanford slides from the couch, absently wiping his forehead. “No I…-” He pauses, once again disoriented. Mabel holds up a pair of glasses— _his_ glasses. He takes them with a word of thanks before he shoots her a confused frown. “What are you doing here?”

     Mabel blinks at him, smile slowly slipping from her face. “You were kinda shouting in your sleep.”

Oh.

     He attempts another smile, ready to assure her that everything’s quite fine and that it was all just a bad dream but a smaller hand finds his own.

     Five fingers curl around his fifth and sixth digit.  “…I get them too sometimes.”

     She avoids his eye but her knuckle-white grip on the glass speaks lengths. All at once he’s ready to reassure and comfort her but she merely offers the glass instead.

     “Try some.” It’s more of a command than a suggestion, especially when she shoves it his way. “It’s the best cure for bad-dreams.” She adds in a lighter tone.

     Confused yet somewhat endeared, he accepts. The glass is cold against his palms and wet from condensation. He glances back at his grand-niece who musters a smile and nods at him with a growing encouragement in her eyes. _I’ve certainly tried stranger things,_ he reasons before he braves a sip.

It tastes great.

     At least, that’s what he wants to say. It’s pure sugar and it coats his tongue in filmy saccharin and the dinosaurs… Well, maybe she was onto something there. He can’t deny the smile he cracks every time the Ankylosaurus’ head pops up among the ice and stickers.

     “Well?” She draws out the vowel, hopeful look smeared across her face.

     “Outstanding.” He compliments. “Though it could use more dinosaurs I think.”

     Mabel beams and rushes to the door. “I’ll get right on it Grunkle Ford!”

     Stanford waves her out with a baffled look and chuckle. He listens to her retreating footsteps, returns to his glass and swirls the contents around. Dinosaurs float to the surface, happily clinking against ice and glass. He smiles a little and takes another sip, welcoming the familiarity the taste brings this time. It reminds him of the salt water taffy he and Stanley used to share after a day on the beach. The sweets shop was just a block away from the pier if he remembered correctly…

     The dull purr of a lawnmower breaches his thoughts, bringing with it a breeze which smells of summer. Mixed with the nostalgic flavored juice it’s a smell which carries him back to New Jersey. The wood under his feet shifts into sunbaked sand that glints with shards of glass. The mower’s purr twists into the shrill screech of gulls. He smells sea salt, feels the caress of an ocean breeze against his bristled cheeks and hears laughter from days long gone. It’s pleasant. Comforting. But reality’s quick to return like the snap of a rubber band against the wrist.

     He staggers and blinks in the growing dark of his room. Questions dart across his mind. What was that just then? A memory? _Memories aren’t that tangible._ He shoots back. _It was real,_ so _real._

He peers into his cup for a long while until the sun dips below the Cascades. By the time Mabel returns he’s finished the whole glass.   

     “Wow Grunkle Ford, I didn’t think you’d like it _that_ much.” She exclaims.

     He can only smile back, at a loss for words until he considers his empty cup. “I’d like a little more if that’s not too much to ask.”

 

The nightmares don’t return that night.


End file.
